


the absence of warmth

by saforoh



Series: who is dream? [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Author is a Clay | Dream Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), Bittersweet Ending, Clay | Dream Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Hurt, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Prison, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Harm, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saforoh/pseuds/saforoh
Summary: The thoughts of a man who has lost what little was his own.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sam | Awesamdude
Series: who is dream? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174130
Comments: 3
Kudos: 219





	the absence of warmth

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone in the fic states that they are uncomfortable with this fic or being depicted in any of the themes in this fic, I will delete this. Usual warnings apply, read tags before reading the fic. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Dream gasped as the hands (or were they limbs? digits?) wrapped around his arms, twisting themselves into his skin, digging deep, deep, deeper until he could feel the horrible infinite pain of something in his flesh and he breathed. And it disappeared. And he would breathe again, and feel the invisible tormentors begin again, this time playing with what flesh was left on his legs, gripping the femur, ripping his skin like it was a leaf from a dying tree. And it began once more, his own skin feeling violated, with ants and centipedes crawling beneath his worn hands and his gaunt torso. The blinding endless pain and the cold harsh obsidian floor and the near constant burning sensation near his face had twisted and warped whatever was left of him. 

The first few days of his imprisonment wasn’t as bad as people had made it out to seem. He was alone with nothing but his thoughts, but what better company could be provided to a man without a home? Prisoners would only stay in solitary confinement for at most forty-eight hours, his mind hummed. But he knew he was strong, and fueled by anger, and whatever was left after his supposed allies turned on him. 

He had wanted a prison that caused children to stare upon it, making strange stories. A prison which caused the older citizens to stare helplessly and furiously at the building which would look over the server. A building secure enough that no single man could ever escape. He had smiled, planning to throw Tommy into it for a few days, to see what it was like. 

Tommy was the best game of all, having lovely reactions to everything he threw at him. The loss of his armor and his precious items hardly fazed him after a few times and he would throw whatever he had on him into the shallow hole. He would have a fun expression on his face, with tears about to fall and fists gripping his dirty pants. Tommy. Tommy was the person who practically created the first wars, bringing chaos and terror wherever he went. He had allowed them to play at becoming a nation but they went too far. All he had wanted Tommy and Wilbur to do was to acknowledge that it was still Dream SMP land and to grant him ultimate sovereignty over the land, but no, Wilbur and his blinded army decided that they were rebels and wanted independence. Despite all of the land belonging to Dream. 

It was all his land. Sure, he may have been a little bit harsh on everyone who broke a rule, but it was necessary for him, as a leader, to make sure that peace was maintained. He never had a second to rest, always patrolling the border and lighting the area up with torches, killing mobs, and keeping an eye on anyone from L’Manberg. He had the entire SMP in the grip of his hand and he was going to bring them to prosperity, despite the growing disease of rebellion. 

And when Punz led the charge through the nether portal and into the prison, all he could think of was how lenient he had been on them. He had trusted Punz, his only constant ally. 

You should have paid me more. 

He grits his teeth. He had practically showered him with expensive jewels and useful metals and had even granted the rest of the SMP to him, and Punz still wanted more. He knew that he couldn’t reasonably kill the crowd, even if some of them were on their last life. It may have been possible, if he had used up all of his resources, but he spared them and granted mercy. He smiled, backed up, and played the role of the desperate coward. He had cried and begged them not to throw them into the prison, knowing that they would. 

He was poisoned and drugged and thrown into new scraps that could hardly be considered clothing. One small mercy from the Warden was that he was allowed to keep his mask. During the first twenty-four hours, he examined the cell, running his hands along the walls to see if there were any weak points. He peered under the lectern and searched the cauldron, finding nothing that could help him cross a river of lava. There was no bed, but in the corner of the cell, there was a small pool of water. He later found out what this water was for, a safety pad for him after he died. Small mercies. 

The clock was tick-tick-ticking during the entire instance, feeling like the heavy weight of a heavy blanket over him. He was both aware and unaware of the golden contraption, the sounds passing through the glass and directly to his brain. By the third day, he began enjoying the sound, which accompanied the clicking sound of the potato dispenser, warping the silence which permeated every inch of his body as he laid on the floor. 

After a week (or was it just a few days?) he risked his current position and walked into the lava. He knew that the lava wall was thick and practically never-ending. But he was just so bored after a few days. He had thought about his own actions. 

He knew his morals were skewed. He was born into the war between the East and the North and had siblings return from war without an eye and memories. His small hands were perfect for stitching up small deep cuts in the field, having his older sister hold the poor soldiers down as he poured cheap moonshine on the wound and stitched the flesh together and sent the man back into battle. He felt the warm splash of blood on his face when a diseased man was sent to battle, the terrible hacking coughs disgusting even him, a boy hardened by the bodies littering his front garden. The terrible smells of war, of excrement, blood, and rot, scarred him. But he knew he had it easy and was never sent to war. The war ended and a weak treaty was established but the villages along the border never truly recovered. 

When he was twelve, more skirmishes appeared, whether they were traumatized Western soldiers or bandits seeing a ruined village as an easy target. The village was short on warriors and fighters so after the treaty was signed, the remaining soldiers taught the children how to fight. They beat the children into the ground, teaching them how to jump from tree to tree, how to create swords in moments, how to lie to everyone they saw, how to use your appearance as a tool, and how to survive. Dream wishes that he could see this as a good thing, remembering that he was forced into killing his best friend to prove that he was ready to fight. His numbness to everything made him one of the best candidates for fighting in the village and they called him a great hero in the making. He knew he was traumatized, knew that he was missing the morals that his sister had so desperately tried to make him keep. He was a child. 

He was thirteen when he met Sapnap and George in the central city. He was tired of fighting and killing anyone who his village sent him after, so he ran. The city was large and overwhelming with blinding lights, giant structures, and architecture that seemed more for aesthetic rather than safety. They had instantly become best friends and they never left each other's side again, hands always entangled in the other’s. 

Tommy was a weak, weak child. Why couldn’t he see that Dream was trying to teach him? Yes, he was a horrible person for manipulating him but it would make him better in the long run. It was for Tommy’s own good. After all, it worked for him. 

What was he thinking? 

He was a terrible person. He broke the mind of a child because he wanted him to become more like him. He isolated him from his friends and allowed his brother to be killed by his own father and destroyed his own land to get back at the independent nation. He had seen it as a game, relishing in the control he had over the people. 

The next time the Warden visited, Dream spilled everything that was on his mind. The Warden stared at him the entire time, mask hiding all of his features. After Dream was finished, the Warden frowned, the disappointment palpable. 

“At least you know that what you did was wrong. But sorry doesn't change anything, Manipulator.” 

The Warden left. 

Dream was once again left alone, to the tick-tick-ticking of the clock and the clicking of the dispensers. 

He began to talk to the clock, seeing the golden face as something that could vaguely resemble a face and decided that it was good enough for a companion. The Warden had given him a chest full of blank notebooks on the second day but he found speaking much more fun. He couldn’t think as much while he was speaking compared to writing. 

The next day, Dream threw the clock into the lava. The next time the Warden had come by to visit him, Dream asked him for another clock, saying that he didn’t mean to throw it into the lava. Lying through his teeth, the voice had said. 

He knew that he wouldn’t be forgiven by his friends. He was a terrible person who manipulated what little friends he had and tormented the rest of the server just for kicks. He had control issues that controlled his actions and left nothing to rational thought. It was better this way, he mused, head resting against the hot obsidian. 

It was one of his better days. When he woke up, tears were running down his face but he couldn’t remember a single thing from his dream. PTSD, unresolved trauma, mental instability, the voice in his head purred. Dream knew exactly what was going on with him. He had studied how the mind can lose itself the longer someone stays in solitary isolation. He knew what would happen to whoever he decided to put in here. But better him than Tommy or Tubbo, he thought. Maybe it was all decided by fate for him to enter the prison and stay here instead of the other residents of the server. 

The next time he woke he couldn’t remember anything. He stared at the lava, back pressed into the wall. He knew every inch of the cell and every ridge and bump on the walls and ceiling. His mind was becoming more muddled the longer he stayed in there. He didn’t even know how many days he was here, the mechanisms of the clock melting and breaking. He still played with the tiny iron hands of the clock, which made for a fun game whenever his mind was particularly troubled. It would make a fun clicking sound. 

He would spend the rest of his life in this cell. There would be no one to help him. He had no family but he supposed that this was his home now. 

Despite everything, he smiled. 

Finally, a home.

**Author's Note:**

> "What can you do, thought Winston, against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself; who gives your arguments a fair hearing and simply persists in his lunacy?”  
> \- George Orwell, 1984


End file.
